Driver’s Seat

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The stubble on his chin is topsoil

Loyal defiance below his intact skin

Spreading above a thin, curved lip

To slip around two hollowed cheeks

In meek, confused patterns of right and wrong

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Along the curve of his jaw I saw

Acute angles running up and down

Unbound by his home-sewn logic-book

Un-took by looks that fall from chance’s hand

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Bland necessity that grows in synthetic shock

Locks that click with a flick of one cleanly wrist

Insist on the curls that fall on his shoulders

Mini boulders on strings, wrapping rings

On unknown fingers—lingered four seconds too long

Those patterns of right and wrong abscond

From an overdue view of bus-stop flair

It’s half-mirth air between the triangles of glass

Pass and rehash the hands on the wheel

Bending steel in eyes that grow soulful in time

Unbind this new sign from papyrus peels

Sealed in the ivory that is right and that is wrong.

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